


Fireside

by Maleficar



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:30:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2796389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maleficar/pseuds/Maleficar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blackwall warms Lady Trevelyan by the fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fireside

Skyhold existed in a strange pocket of heat in the mountains, a place where the chill rarely reached. But sometimes, the chill stole down from the peaks, rolling into the yawning hallways. On days such as those, it was generally regarded as best to stay indoors, and Evelyn, who hated the cold of the mountains almost as much as she hated Corypheus, was more than happy to set her fire to blazing and snuggle on the floor in a pile of blankets with a good book. Not one of Varric’s. Cassandra liked her wild romances, but Evie preferred nonfiction. _A Treatise on the Relationship between Lyrium and Magical Power_ was about as nonfiction as she could get.

Ensconced in blankets, snuggled up to a pile of pillows about two feet high, she turned a page in her book and shivered. Even with the blazing fire and the thick blankets, she was half freezing. Her fingers felt like she'd stuck them in an icy lake.

“Cassandra said I might find you here, my lady.”

The voice startled her, and she jumped, turning her head and peering out from under her protective blanket nest to see Blackwall. He stood at the top of her stairway, a lopsided grin on his handsome face. She scowled at him, but only a little and not meaning it at all. “She’s a traitor,” Evie grumbled, closing her book and wriggling upright, into a sitting position. 

There was a brief flicker of something over Blackwall’s face, but all he said was, “I can come back later.”

“No!” Evie said, a bit too quickly. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind if you stayed. I just… didn’t want to be at the tavern with everyone else. You know.”

Sometimes, everyone was too much for her. She cherished her friends dearly, but at the end of the day almost all of them looked at her like she really was some kind of divinely touched prophet. Even Varric. So while the tavern was much warmer than her rooms, she didn’t want to be surrounded by people who had so many expectations of her. She just wanted to be apart from that for a little while, to be studious Evelyn Trevelyan who was only just good enough, who wasn’t anyone special. Giving him a weak smile, she worked one hand from her blankets and gestured him over. “I’d like your company. You know I would.”

“I know,” he said, climbing up that last step and crossing her room to her. “But I’ll never understand why.”

“Another woman might think all your self-effacing comments are just meant to fish for compliments.” She smiled, even as his face flickered briefly with unease. There was something there, she knew, that made him think he wasn't worthy of happiness of any kind, but she was happy to wait for him to divulge that information on his own. “You’re not, I know. Come join me?”

He eyed the pile of furs, pillows, and blankets and kicked off his boots and shucked his heavy coat. Evie bit her lip at the sight of his much lighter shirt stretching across his broad chest, the fabric straining against his muscles. She adored his body, so much bigger and stronger than hers, capable of dealing out such violence but always gentle with her. Reverent.

Well. Maybe not _always_.

He knelt before her, eying her blankets. “I don’t even know where to begin,” he said, and she laughed, pushing her book away and shouldering free of the blankets. 

“It’s too cold.” She reached for him, and he drew her into his arms, sprawling against one of her piles of pillows and furs, so close to the hearth that the fire cast burnished light across his handsome features. “I hate the cold.” Wrapping her arms around his neck, she settled on his chest, curled between his legs, and she let out a quiet gasp at the feeling of his hard cock pressing against her stomach.

Under his beard, he flushed, just slightly. “You deserve better,” he said, immediately shifting away from her. “Better than a base man who can’t control—”

She kissed him, hard and certain, her tongue sweeping into his open mouth to claim it as her own. As she cajoled him with the kiss, teasing and taunting him with her tongue on his, she rubbed languorously over him. Little mewls of pleasure fell from her lips into their kiss, swallowed by his mouth and his heat.

Just as he groaned, as he settled his hands on her hips to hold her in place, she drew back, her eyes bright. “I like the base man who can’t control himself.”

“I really didn’t come here for sex, my lady.”

She touched the sides of his neck, and the frigid icicles of her fingers made him jump. “I’m cold,” she said softly, plaintively, rolling her hips against his as she bent her head toward him and brushed her lips over his. “Your cock inside me is the best way to warm me up.”

With a groan, he rolled her, pinning her between the hardness of his body and the softness of furs and pillows. One of his hands swept down her leg, drawing it up. She hooked it over his hip, letting him settle in the cradle of her thighs, and moaned helplessly when he rubbed himself against her. 

“I’m a weak man,” he murmured against her lips, nipping at them. He drew back, and she chased him, desperate for the long, drugging kisses he so often gave her, the ones where he made love to her mouth in slow, sweet strokes that made her delirious with need.

“Be weaker,” she whispered in return, sliding her hands over his shoulders. Down his back. She yanked his shirt over his head, tossing it aside before wrapping her arms around him and crushing his body against hers. Sometimes the weight of him was almost too great, but she loved how tiny she felt in his arms. How safe. 

Finally, she caught his mouth with hers, and there was nothing but fire and need in his kiss. Heat flared low in her belly, wicked with the knowledge that this wouldn’t be slow, sweet lovemaking. That could come later, once he’d spread delicious warmth through her limbs. At that moment, she wanted a conflagration of passion, a heat that scalded and burned and left her breathless.

He ground against her, his cock hard between her legs and rubbing the seam of her pants over her clit, and she knew he wanted it too. 

“Weaker still.” She groaned the words against his lips, arching to press herself closer to him, and she felt his breathless laughter against her lips.

Then he tore open the front of her shirt.

Heat lanced through her, a burning need. He pushed the tattered fabric out of his way, kissing along her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. Each touch of his lips was accompanied by a light bite and then a soothing lave of his tongue, leaving her trembling beneath him. His hands, as cold as hers, slid up her sides to cup her breasts, and she shivered, moaned. The heat of his body was a delicious counterpoint to the chill touch of his hands, and her skin prickled. 

“Yes,” she groaned as he bent his head to kiss the hardened peak of one breast. The soft touch made her burn brighter, hotter. “Maker, yes, please.” 

He defied her need, stroking one nipple with his thumb while shifting to kiss the underside of one breast, and she moaned with frustration, her hips rocking against his. She wanted his mouth on her, suckling her. She wanted his teeth worrying the hardened nub of her nipple, wanted him to leave her red and bruised from the depth and force of his desire.

“Blackwall, please.”

He bit down on the soft skin of her breast, and her plea became a muffled cry. But he obliged her. His tongue circled her nipple, swirling around her tender flesh. She trembled as he moved ever closer, her fingers sliding into his hair to hold him against her. A nonsensical litany of pleas fell from her lips as he _finally_ closed his lips around her nipple and sucked.

She couldn’t stop the cry of pleasure. Couldn’t hold it back. And he groaned with approval as he tortured her with his tongue. He loved the sounds she made, she knew. Did his damnedest to make her scream to the rafters every time he touched her, but she, just as much, loved letting him know just how much his touch affected her. She wasn’t shy, not any more, about making as much noise as she wanted.

“Beauty,” he murmured around the peak of her breast, shifting his attention to the other. He lashed her with his tongue until her back arched and she cried out his name, her fingers scratching his scalp as she held him to her. 

“Please, more,” she begged, her thoughts barely coherent. 

His hands swept down her side as he pulled away from her. She mewled in protest, hating the loss of his heat, until one of those hands slid between her legs. The other pulled at the laces on her breeches. He grinned at her, wolf-like and hungry, no indecision or reticence on his face, not now. There was always this change in him, this shift from worshipper to devourer, and she adored it. Craved it.

As soon as her laces were free, the hand between her legs slipped into her breeches. She gasped with delight as his fingers parted her slick folds, and he swore. “Wet,” he said with the same disbelief that was always in his voice. She loved that, too, that he was always so shocked by her arousal. Her need for him. “So wet.” 

“For you,” she moaned, rolling her hips into his hand. “Please, Blackwall, I need—”

“I know what you need,” he growled, voice rough and thick with lust. There was a flash of the wolfish hunger in his eyes, the need to devour, and she whimpered, pressing her legs together and trapping his hand between her thighs.

Dark laughter washed over her, and he bent down to kiss her lips, the valley between her breasts, her belly. Her breath caught in her throat as he withdrew his hand and worked her breeches down her legs, taking her smalls with them. When he tossed them aside, she didn’t even feel the chill in the air. His eyes raked over her with possessive heat, widening for just a moment like they always did, then narrowing with purpose.

“Spread your legs for me, Evie,” he rumbled, and she did, without hesitation or shame. She smoothed her hands over her belly, combing her fingers through the curls between her legs before sliding one of her long, thin fingers into her aching body. She was wet, positively soaked, her arousal dampening her curls and her thighs.

He sat back, watching her with ravenous eyes. “Perfect,” he breathed as she rubbed her thumb over her clit, dragging that finger inside her over sensitive flesh until she gasped and moaned his name. 

“I want you,” she moaned, arching her back, making her body and offering as she played with herself. The heat of the fire warmed the left side of her body, cast golden light over the harsh planes and white scars of his chest, but the chill was gone, chased away by the hunger in his eyes as he watched her. “I want you inside me, please. Need you.” She said the words as much for him as for herself. “Going to die if you don’t touch me, please.”

Another rumble of laughter escaped him, but it was edged with tension. He caught her wrist, pulling her hand from her core. He pressed a kiss to her palm and then captured her finger in his mouth, tongue swirling around it as he licked her arousal from her skin. She shuddered, moaned his name, twisted with need.

“Tease,” she gasped.

Releasing her hand, he captured her ankle in his hold, bending over her foot. 

Maker, not this. She trembled as he kissed her instep, her calf, the side of her knee. Maker, anything but this slow torture, and she shivered as he feathered his fingers along the soft skin of her inner thigh. He brushed a caress over that place where thigh met hip, and she jerked at the touch. Leaning back, he smoothed his hands down her legs, the rough calluses on his fingers the sweetest agony. 

“Beg me for it,” he murmured.

She wasn’t sure precisely why he liked hearing her beg. It probably had something to do with his self-effacing manner. But she was all too happy to plead with him. For him. “Blackwall,” she moaned, lifting her hips and spreading her legs wider. His hungry gaze settled on the wet, pink flesh between her thighs. “Touch me, please.” 

His hand swept up her other leg, and she nearly sobbed. He loved to tease her, to give her fleeting, unfulfilling pleasure until she was delirious and desperate. Really, she loved it, too. “I am touching you.” 

“I need you inside me,” she groaned. “Need your cock in me, please.”

“Not yet,” he murmured, though his voice was strained. As her eyes swung from the hands slowly curling around her calf, she could see the hard line of his cock straining against his pants, and she licked her lips. She’d never had someone as big as him, never had someone who filled her so much she felt it hours later. She was addicted to him, to the burn of his touch, and well he knew it. He just liked to hear her say it.

“Maker, please, Blackwall.” His lips brushed over her inner thigh and every muscle in her body tensed. “I – I can’t… I need…” Words were escaping her, forming briefly in her head before pleasure eroded them. “Please, please, please.”

His lips brushed over her clit, and she let out a thin cry of delight. His thumbs brushed over her spread lips, swollen and slick with her desire, and he opened her wider for his pleasure. His tongue pressed against her, swept over her, lighting her nerves on fire and making her sob with delight. With him between her legs, his shoulders spreading her wide, she was so open, so vulnerable, and so utterly safe.

One of his thumbs slipped into her as he licked her, shallowly stroking against sensitive flesh, and she chanted his name, a benediction of praise and wonder. He was dedicated to her pleasure, forever ensuring she came hard and often, and always first. Once, she’d tried to take him into her mouth first, and he’d pinned her to the bed, tied her wrists there, and spent an hour between her legs. She still wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be retribution. It had been agonizingly wonderful.

“Tell me how you feel,” he said, his breath hot against her wet core.

“Dying,” she gasped as he pressed his thumb deeper, as he swirled it inside her and stretched her body for him. She was always tight around his cock, and he was always so careful not to hurt her. “Like I’m dying. Maker, I’m burning for you.” 

He chuckled, rubbing the tip of his tongue over her clit. “Are you, my lady?”

She shuddered at the words, so proprietary. So possessive. She really was his. He owned her, body and soul. And then he was on her like he was devouring her, and though she tried to tell him how much she wanted him, all she could do was gasp and moan. She twisted under him until a heavy hand pinned her hips to the ground, and she knew she’d be bruised there later. She didn’t care. He’d kiss the bruises and whisper his apologies, but she’d wear the marks like badges of honor.

Replacing his thumb with one thick, callused finger, he stroked her. Lashed her with his tongue. Drove her to the very edge of sanity. Her legs were shaking with heat and desire when he dragged the flat of his tongue over her clit and she finally came for him. If there was any cold left in the world, it wasn’t in her room, wasn’t in Skyhold. 

Gasping, she drove her fingers into his hair and clung to him. He was the only thing solid and real. Pleasure swept away everything else. She drowned in it, unable to do anything except let it sweep her away in a torrent of electric heat, her body shuddering with it. She realized, as the blackness of blinding pleasure resolved itself into Blackwall’s face, that she was whispering his name like a mantra. 

“Maker, you’re beautiful,” he said, brushing a hand over her hair. “Still can’t believe I—” 

She shoved him, pushing him onto his back on the furs. He only went down because he was off guard, and the only reason she was able to tear out the laces of his breeches and free his cock was because he was stunned. He never seemed to expect her to take command.

But she needed him in her mouth. She needed to push him to the edge like he pushed her, and her mouth closed over him, hot and hard, sucking him deep. He swore, his fingers threading through her hair. Like always, he tried to tug her away, but she only pushed herself further down his cock, taking as much of his length as she could. “Maker, Evie, you—” She swallowed around him, and whatever he was going to say died on his lips.

Taking him deep, she ran her tongue along the thick veins that lined his cock, delighting in the silky smooth texture of his skin. She pulled back, tasting the salty precum at his tip. Sucked on the head of his cock. Took him back into her mouth again. 

His fingers tightened in her hair, but he didn’t stop her, and when she glanced up, she found him staring fixedly at her, blue eyes glassy with desire. Heat shuddered through her. She loved him being in charge, no doubt, but she loved how she could do this simple thing and make him weak. He’d protest later, tell her she was too good to perform such a lurid act on him, and she would whisper how wet it made her, how it made her body clench and ache for him.

Maker, she ached. Having him in her mouth, driving him to the edge of control, was a sweet pleasure, but it did nothing to satiate the burning need to have him inside her. It just made her desire him more, made her want to ride him, to be ridden by him. She sucked harder on him, and he swore again, his fingers tangled so deeply in her hair she wondered if he’d be able to pull them free. But then he was dragging her off his cock, rolling her beneath him as he kicked his pants down his legs and settled between hers.

“Can’t stand it anymore,” he said as he rubbed his cock between her legs, coating himself in her arousal. “Need to be inside you.”

“Yes,” she breathed, wrapping her legs around his waist. The head of his cock nudged against her entrance, and she gasped as he growled, the sound hot and possessive and needy. His hand closed hard on her hip as he guided himself into her, feeding himself into her body in slow, measured strokes. “Harder,” she demanded, lifting her hips to take him deeper.

He dropped his forehead against hers, their noses brushing. The light of the fire made his eyes look golden instead of blue. “Gentle,” he said. “Going to be gentle with you.”

A strangled sound escaped her as she twisted beneath him, trying to impale herself on his thick cock as it spread her. Stretched her. The pleasure burned, she burned, and she couldn’t tell if it was because he filled her so well or if it was because they were so close to the fire. Maybe she was on fire. Sometimes, that happened – little flames licked at the tips of her fingers and danced harmlessly across their skin.

“Take me,” she breathed, tightening her legs around his hips. “Hard. Don’t want gentle.”

He groaned, shaking his head as he withdrew and pushed slowly back into her. “Deserve better.”

Her nails scored his back, bit into his shoulders, raked over his skin. She wailed his name, straining beneath him, desperate for him to move faster. To take her hard. Anything more than this slow grind of his body into hers, this aching, stretching pull as he withdrew. “Hard,” she demanded, turning to bite his earlobe, his neck. 

She dug her nails into his shoulders and curled her toes against his ass to try to find leverage. But he was too heavy on her, too strong, too in control. Just that much made her clench and ripple around her, a hint of the earth-shattering pleasure just out of her reach, and she saw his eyes darken. 

Brushing her lips over his ear, she whispered filthy things to him as he continued his slow, relentless assault of her body. How she wanted to come for him, how she wanted to scream his name. How she wanted to be ravished and left breathless.

His protests grew fainter, fewer and far between, until she whispered, “I’m yours, Blackwall.” And then he snapped. Shattered. Gave up whatever thread of control he desperately held on to. One hand curled under her neck, dragging her mouth to his in a brutal, demanding kiss. He took her mouth with force, his cock surging into her to match as he grasped her hip to hold her in place. Languorous lovemaking became frenzied, desperate, two people aching for fulfillment and using each other for their mutual pleasure.

She reveled in it, in the baseness of the act, in the searing pleasure of him pounding into her and claiming her with his body. Heat bloomed in every part of her, and when she grasped his arm, holding desperately to him, she saw little flickers of flame at the tips of her fingers. 

He drew back from her lips. “I need to feel you come for me, Evie,” he said, nipping at her, the hand on her hip sliding between their bodies. She was so on edge, so sensitive, she didn’t think she needed him to touch her clit, but, Maker, was she wrong. 

His fingers brushed over her and she swore she saw stars. It wasn’t, she knew, anything so melodramatic as that, but her breath caught and her body seized, and she was crying out his name without reservation. She clung to him, her head thrown back and his mouth against her neck, suckling hard enough to leave a love bite.

Her body grasped at him as he drew out of her, muscles squeezing him as pleasure rolled through her, a wash of flame. And when he thrust back into her, he shuddered too, her name a whisper on his lips as he spilled inside her. 

They lay like that, tangled together, as they caught their breath. Her whole body burned, was slick with sweat, and she didn’t feel any of the cold mountain air. There was just him, his heat, the fire that spilled warmth over them. In the fireplace, a log snapped, and they both looked up, surprised to find themselves mere inches from the hearth.

Carefully, he rolled off her, then pulled her against his chest. “You make me forget myself,” he murmured, grabbing one of the thick blankets and dragging it over their naked bodies. “I want to be good to you.”

She snuggled against his side, resting one hand on his chest, running her fingers through the coarse hair she found there. “That _is_ good,” she said, stretching to kiss the underside of his chin. 

He curled his arm around her, fingers closing lightly on her shoulder. “Still cold?”

She shivered, but with heat, and shook her head. “You chased away the chill. But…” Biting her lip, she gave him a wicked smile. “It might come back, you know, the cold.”

“Is that an invitation to stay?” 

“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, yes.”

He bent his head and gave her a soft, lingering kiss. “Then I will be your guard against all manner of wind and chill.”

She gave him a self-satisfied smile. “You’re better than a pile of blankets and a fire.”

And later, when the chill danced its way along her spine and slipped back into her fingers and toes, he let her ride him, slow and lazy, until the fire burned itself to embers.


End file.
